


...and Lashings of Ginger Beer!

by AsbestosMouth



Series: The Dornewall Chronicles [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, BLYTON Enid - Works, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1930's, AU obviously, AU of an AU? AUception!, Biting Social Satire my arse..., F/M, Gen, It's Enid Blyton!, M/M, Ned's a bit Sharpe in this, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 11:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6468049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is an independently-minded fourteen year old girl, who is far better than any boys because boys are stupid and she can do everything they can, to do? Winterfell is so boring without her siblings, and they are off either having jolly wonderful adventures, or cramming for exams, or being Rickon! The entire summer at Mummy's mercy, and she is determined to make Arya into a proper young lady, without japes, fun, and cream teas upon the moor with languid youths and Sansa being scared of insects. Sensing Cat's growing murderous intent, Ned does the best thing he can; Arya's off to Dorne for the summer, in the care of Professor Tyrell and that bastard Martell (said with some affection in a singularly Northern voice), and what could possibly go wrong?</p><p>It's Enid Blyton, but not as we know it. <em>Famous Five, Mallory Towers</em> et al, plus <em>Game of Thrones</em>? Lashings of ginger beer all round! (with Nazis, obviously. It's Enid Blyton). Set somewhat wonkily in the Dornewall Chronicles, as it's not canon to them. Stands alone. Huzzah!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter the First: Arya Goes on Holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swimmingfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/gifts).



**Chapter the First: Arya Goes on Holiday**

 

* * *

 

 

This just simply would not do!

 

Arya was going to be all alone in the summer hols, for the first time for ever, and she did not like it one jot. Robb and his particular friend Theon were in Greece, absorbing Hellenic culture which seemed terribly amusing to Theon but not to Arya herself. He said something about doing things like the Greeks, and Arya wondered if he meant dominating the Mediterranean over many centuries while inventing scientific research that would stand for three thousand years, but according to postcards they prefered drinking plenty of ouzo and talking to German boys with very blond hair.

 

Even Jon, her favourite cousin, was away. Scotland with Fatty, who really was Sam but no one ever called him by by his proper name. They decided to hike in the Highlands, which as Fatty was, well, terribly plump, did not seem the sort of holiday he would enjoy much at all! Perhaps Miss Tarth’s calisthenic approach to lifestyle and personal well-being was also being taught at Castle Black, the renowned northern English boarding school that Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Rhaegar sent Jon? It seemed terribly Spartan, and who knew what several hundred boys and young men got up to when so far away from anywhere? Perhaps they were all at it, exercising to a rigid schedule?

 

Sansa and her fiance Mr. Clegane, who wore a kilt to church on Sundays and sported a war wound he received in India across his ugly face, were in London planning a wedding, which was terribly boring for Arya. Weddings were just silly, and she had promised that she would never get married as boys were just as silly as weddings. Gosh, she was better than any boy! She ran, and swam, climbed trees, shot Papa’s late C18th short musket that had been handed down by his forefathers, could recite and solve several fiendish mathematical formulae, spoke passable Latin, could fix her own bicycle, and everything!

 

Mummy did despair. She kept trying to persuade Arya through bribery and threats to wear Sansa’s old tea dresses, and comb her hair, or even grow her hair out long like Sansa’s, but Papa, who was solid and sensible, said that Arya had entered an age where she should experiment with her personal tastes and habits, that she was a clever duck, and Mummy should not pressure her to change if she did not wish to. It seemed quite obvious that Papa quite liked Arya being just as she was, and took her to dancing lessons with Mister Syrio. Not lessons such as Sansa’s ballet! He taught her how to fence, and it was the most wonderful thing in the entire world!

 

Bran, who used a wheelchair after some terrible accident involving climbing which Arya had always been better at anyway, was cramming for his exams and therefore being terribly serious which was no fun at all. Rickon, being eight and just plain Rickon, was worse.

 

“Mummy, what am I to do for the entire summer at Winterfell? No one is here!”

 

Mummy, who was trying to read a magazine and drink a cup of tea and seemed quite fed-up with Arya’s endless litany of complaints, sent her to speak to Papa.

 

Papa beamed, and picked up the telephone, connecting to the exchange and requesting a connection to a person in Dorne.

 

“Ah, Tyrell?”

 

She could not hear the person on the other end of the device, obviously, even though she strained her ears and listened very intently. Papa just grinned at her, twisting the telephone wire about his finger like everyone else did. Sansa did it the most, when talking with Margaery, or Jayne, or her millions of excitable female friends with nice hair and overly-fussy tailoring.

 

“Not bad, thank you. Yourself?” Pause. “Aye, I was wondering if you would mind doing us an enormous favour. Arya’s at home for the summer on her own, and-” Pause. “Aye, it’s good of you to offer, I admit I was hoping-” Another pause. Whoever Tyrell was, he or she spoke far more than Papa ever could, although Arya did admit that Mr. Stark was more the silent and heroic type often beloved in soppy romantic novels her school peers loved. Perhaps he should have been a granite-jawed captain in some Napoleonic past, saving damsels and defeating the evil of the French republic with derring-do and northern grit? She always had girls asking if they could come to stay at Winterfell, just because they had a pash for her father! Or Robb. Or even Jon. Sometimes Sansa, but those tended to be third formers, who Arya was far too old and sophisticated to be friends with now she had reached fourth form.

 

“That’s settled then, I’ll get the arrangements sorted out and telephone you back with the itinerary. Really, think you’ve saved Cat from throttling her.” Whoever was at the other end of the telephone laughed terribly loudly, causing Papa to hold the receiver three inches from his ear. He caught Arya’s eye, and grinned. “Regards to that Martell.”

 

Papa hung the receiver back upon the stand, and ruffled Arya’s hair.

 

“Well, you are very lucky as Professor Tyrell says you can go to Dorne for the summer. It’s about time that the bastard,” and as always, Arya thought, Papa said the word with a certain relish in his strong Yorkshire accent, “sorry Arya, don’t tell your mother I swore in front of you as she’d kill me, did good upon his promise.  


* * *

 

Getting to Dorne was a frightful bore!

 

Papa drove her to the railway station in the new Varys he had recently bought, the one he treated himself to when he hit forty and had that fashionable haircut which Mummy searingly referred to as his ‘midlife crisis’. A kindly station master helped with all of the necessary tickets required, even for the ferry to Dorne. For Arya, travelling by train was not the most exciting of things, as she popped up and down the length of England several times a year to and from school, usually fending off hopeful boys who took one look at her wearing shorts and seemed to presume things. Boys were so jolly rude, really, who on earth could ever want to kiss one? Sansa and Mr. Clegane kissed all the time, and that was traumatic for anyone standing near! Especially when Sansa started making that sound as if she were a weasel being tickled.

 

The conductor, who was also terribly nice as all railway staff at the time were since it was the 1930’s and by law they had to be twinkling-eyed and decent to children, settled her into the comfortable first class compartment and told her to call if she needed any help. Other girls would have knit, or read an improving book, or a silly romance novel about vampires in love with thoroughly idiotic girls who did not understand that the vampire was evil and she should have reported the vampire to the police or staked him herself which seemed eminently sensible, but not Arya. She settled back in her seat, tucking her legs up in a most unladylike position, and watched the scenery flashing by. Oh, trains were so very boring, but going on holiday to Dorne was not!

 

What would Professor Tyrell be like, she wondered? The laughter upon the phone had not been conclusive towards a gender, but surely Papa would not send her off to stay with a man? Mama always droned on about protecting her girls from lurking perverts (whatever they were) but she seemed positively thrilled to ship Arya off to stay in Dorne. Perhaps Professor Tyrell was a person like Miss Tarth, her Physical Instruction teacher, who technically was a woman but seemed to inflame the passions of the third form even more than Sansa did? Arya had a crush herself, but now she moved up a year and was a sophisticated and worldly fourth former, she rose above all of the silliness. But Miss Tarth was wonderful, and Arya sometimes followed her about and wondered if Brienne (‘Arya, please, you may call me Brienne when you’ve been hit about the head by a hockey stick and cannot manage my full name. Please sit, and I’ll go and get Matron’), thought boys just as pointless as she did.

 

Yes, Professor Tyrell must be some tall, well-formed woman, muscular and possessing a strident voice that made Arya’s stomach flip about like a performing seal..

 

She alighted at Gloucester, taking the 12.42 to the south west, and chugged into Penzance just in time to race across to the docks to catch the ferry to Dorne. That was far more fun than a stuffy old train! She stayed upon the top deck, the salt-wind blowing her cropped hair into a vortex of tangle, watching the waves splash against the bow of the proud ship as it trundled across the short stretch of water between the mainland and the islands. As usual in these circumstances Arya dreamed of being a pirate, plundering the Spanish main for gold, or purposely luring ships upon the treacherous Dornish coastline to steal all of the cargo and murder the sailors for amusement and profit.

 

Such fun!

 

The ferry ride was far too short, and Dorne soon loomed upon the horizon. The islands, as she had read within the Encyclopaedia Britannica that Bran hoarded and protected with his life but since he was crippled it was far too easy for her to steal the necessary volume, consisted of a number of islands set within an archipeligo, part of the Dornubian batholith and therefore mostly granite in nature. Laid down four hundred million years previously, they were of the s-type of rock created by partially melting existing sedimentary materials, and this bounty therefore allowed Dorne to be the foremost producer of minerals and tin in the country.

 

Arya liked geology.

 

* * *

 

Professor Tyrell proved rather different to what Arya expected.

 

When she hopped from the boat, she did not see a tall, oddly-attractive woman who could wrestle unsuspecting men and beasts with her long muscular thighs. No! The tweed, however, had been correct.

 

Professor Tyrell was cheerful, leaning heavily upon a most ornate cane, and very very male. His eyes were bright, hair very neat and brushed just so, and he was rather younger than Arya had expected.

 

“Ah, you must be Arya! How lovely to finally have one of you Starklets come and stay, been after your father for bally ages to pop one in the post for us to spoil thoroughly! Aren’t you just a darling? Shall I take your case? I bet Cat despairs of you, dearheart, you’re just like lovely Ned, aren’t you? How’s that cousin of yours? And Robb? Sansa has sent us an invite to the wedding, I am thinking of getting a wonderful new hat! Are you hungry? We shall have tea and cake and lashings of ginger beer when we get back to the cottage, will that do?”

 

It was a little like being beaten about the head with a friendly teddy bear, one who refused to shut up.

 

He took her suitcase, even if she protested as she was a girl and they were quite as good as boys if not better at carrying suitcases, and she would be be alright since he used the walking stick, and Professor Tyrell smiled. He had dimples, and freckles all the way over his nose, and the hint of a tan.

 

“Don’t be silly, dearheart, I can carry your case. It’s a good day, let me have my fun!”

 

She was not sure what Professor Tyrell meant by a ‘good day.’ Perhaps he was thoroughly excited about having her come to stay? And it was a lovely day, with the sky so very blue, and the birds singing their merry tune overhead as swallows and skylarks danced in the air. Dorne seemed to peaceful and sleepy, as if adventure and peril could never happen upon these beautiful isles. No, no danger to young girls on holiday whatsoever!

 

The car that Professor Tyrell took her to was enormous! Papa had a quite modest Varys but this, a top of the range Sparrowhawk cabriolet with additional extras including automatic windscreen wipers, and the extra-plush leather interior (which was red and Arya thought it tacky and marvellous in spades!) was dashed wonderful. She clambered into the back seat with her suitcase, and then realised that a man was grinning at her in a most disconcerting way from the driving seat.

 

“Ah, the image of her handsome father,” he murmured in a treacle-rich Dornish accent, and Arya felt her cheeks turn very red indeed. He was very handsome, like some American film star - more along the lines of Clark Gable than Douglas Fairbanks because of that moustache - with ravishing dark eyes and perfect hair and very white teeth. He wore a cream silk shirt that showed rather a lot of well-tanned muscled torso and black chest hair, and long riding boots over well-fitted breeches. Professor Tyrell giggled for some reason, which was terribly interesting as no one over the age of twenty should giggle, especially not a Professor, and he turned awkwardly in his seat to beam at her. He really was a cheerful sort of chap.

 

“Oberyn has that effect upon most people, dearheart.” Professor Tyrell, Arya decided, was terribly nice. Even if he did giggle.

 

“Oberyn? Like in Shakespeare?” She read it for school. Unlike her favourite plays where girls dressed up as boys and fooled everyone, and Arya fought so hard to play those parts in productions even if she had to kiss various blushing third formers on the hand and wear a silly ruff about her neck, _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ was thoroughly uninspiring. Pandering, she thought, to the sensibilities of an audience rather than reaching above the mundane to attain sheer artistry. She often wondered about asking if they could try _Titas Andronicas_ instead, but decided not to in case the faculty asked for her expulsion. Mummy would be appalled if she was sent down again!

 

“Mmm. King of the Faeries,” Oberyn purred. He started the engine, moved his hand to take the gear stick out of neutral, and accidentally ran his hand along Professor Tyrell’s thigh instead.

 

Professor Tyrell did not seem to mind, which was terribly nice, just like him. Perhaps he was just used to Oberyn being clumsy? He did the same thing on the short drive over to the cottage quite often when changing gear, and Professor Tyrell, obviously a proper gentleman of high breeding and sensitivity, did not mention the mistake at all.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all SwimmingFox's fault, she is like some muse who forces me to write AUs that rip off popular British authors of the early 20th century. I am unashamed of using pop-culture, modern and period, in this. And if you've not read Enid Blyton, you should. Lots of us Brits grew up on her books. They can be period racist/sexist etc, but taken as a record of the time of writing they show a fascinating world. But avoid the Noddy books. He's creepy.


	2. Arya Meets a Foreigner, Has Bicycle Problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note - the usual Blyton racism/sexism/phobias apply. Couldn't be Blyton without the normal distaste for different things, would it?

* * *

 

 

Another lovely summer’s day in Dorne! Really, back in the 1930s all summers were, by law, forced to be sweet and wonderful, endless beautiful play days in which children could frolic without the fear of perverts, rain, or sunburn.

 

“What are you planning to do today, dear?” Professor Tyrell was making toast, and that in itself seemed rather strange. He and Mr. Martell (“no, sweet child, I am Oberyn. You must call me that. I must insist.”) had no servants which Arya thought thoroughly odd. Winterfell was positively stuffed full of cooks, and maids, and grooms, and random silly serving boys, and all sorts of lower classes who lived only to serve the Stark family. That was proper and correct because it was jolly lucky for the lower classes that they had employment, and they should be thankful that the Stark family gave them such a chance at serving their betters.

 

“I think I will cycle into Dorne village and have an ice cream, if I may borrow a bicycle? I am just as good as a boy at bicycling, if not better. Much better than Bran!”

 

Mr. Martell coughed slightly, and looked up from his copy of the  _ Daily Mirror  _ and over to his friend _. _ “Shall you be gone all day, sweet child?”

 

For some reason the professor turned a little red, probably from the difficulties of making bread into toast. Some things were very hard, after all, but he battled stubbornly with the little forks and the slices.

 

“I think so. I might go and explore the picturesque but highly dangerous and forbidding caves off’ve the beach.”

 

“Mmm. So yes. You may be all day. Interesting. Ah, my dear Willas, did you not say that H’ghar needed to come over give us a hand? With your very pressing issue?” His voice turned velvety again, and his expression seemed a little sharper, more interested.

 

“Oh, oh yes! Totally forgot about Jaqen, aren’t I an old silly? I will telephone to confirm he shall be popping over.” The redness turned a little more red, and Arya agreed that indeed Professor Tyrell was indeed an old silly. Fancy forgetting a man coming to visit indeed! But professor types always forgot many things, possibly because they had so much they had to remember, like dates, and kings and queens, and socio-political climates in obscure European oligarchies of the late C14th-mid C16th.. “He is very good at getting to grips with anything, isn’t he?”

 

“Such talent,” agreed Oberyn, who smirked. 

 

“Speaking of talent,” Professor Tyrell said, “ Arya, I have had such a jolly nice telegram from your lovely cousin and his special friend.” For some reason he looked at Oberyn. “Apparently Scotland is full of midges in the summer, and Sam is being bitten all over, poor lamb, so they have asked if they may pop by for a little visit. Sam practically grew up here when he was a boy, and I am sure he’d like to show young Jon many things.”

 

“Jon doesn’t know much,” Arya added. “Nothing really, he’s useless like all boys are. I mean, he does not even know that when  a fixed amount of an ideal gas is kept at a fixed temperature, pressure and volume are inversely proportional! And everyone knows that.” Jon was a dear, and terribly decent, but really! Arya had never talked to a boy who was as clever as her, and Bran didn’t count because his legs didn’t work. Cripples, obviously, were never as useful to society as hale and hearty people, since they were pretty much useless. Healthy body meant a healthy mind, after all. 

 

“Oberyn is traumatically awful at general chemistry, but thrives upon the organic sort. I have noticed biology is quite up his alley.” That earned the professor a shining grin for some obscure reason.

 

“And you know nothing apart from your ancient histories and clever languages. Such a cunning linguist,” Oberyn replied rather smartly.

 

“Oh, you know me, Oberyn! Willing to try my tongue at anything aren’t I?”

 

Arya pounced on the toast, smothering it in the honey that Oberyn collected from the beehives at Martyr Cottage. It was rather strange that he and Professor Tyrell lived together, since the house was terribly small, and when Arya came to stay the two men had to share a bedroom. Quite often she heard them moaning at each other, or one of them shouted, and they seemed have quite regular arguments - sometimes even twice-nightly! Arya was quite used to sharing a room since she lived in dorms at school until sixth form when she would finally get her own study, and sometimes some of the girls had very similar arguments which resulted in pillows being thrown at heads. All bracing adolescence, of course, perfectly natural in a gaggle of young girls being kept together in a large, isolated school. She was always surprised that there was not more if it about, really. Arguing was a healthy release of youthful fervour.

 

“Could you pick up a few odds and sods for us while you’re out, Arya?” The professor produced a shopping list written in a very neat hand. “Especially the Vaseline, the young man at the chemist will have some behind the counter.”

 

Arya understood. Dry skin could be such a bore.

 

* * *

 

Arya met Mr. H’ghar, who was obviously foreign and therefore she was naturally suspicious of the man, as she pumped the tyres of Professor Tyrell’s bicycle. The professor was awfully nice, but had no idea about basic mechanical maintenance. Mr. H’ghar arrived upon a very swish motorcycle which Arya ached to have a go on. Mummy never let her try Robb’s motorcycle, and said something about the vibrations being overwhelming for a young lady, but surely riding horses and bicycles was just the same? Arya though riding a motorcycle sounded thrilling and wanted so very much have a good bash. She was better than Robb at riding things, she was sure! She once told Theon as much, and did not know why he fell about laughing.

 

Theon was a very silly boy indeed.

 

“A boy is a girl,” said someone, and she almost hit him about the head with the bicycle pump. He moved very quietly. Just like a foreigner to sneak up so.

 

“Pardon?” One should always be polite to one’s lessers.

 

Mr. H’ghar was lean, and had odd red and white hair, and spoke with an eastern European accent. Now Arya did not mind people from other countries, as long as they realised that they needed to remain respectful to their English betters. After all, it was only a selected few colonies that were lucky enough to be ruled under the glorious Empire, where the sun never set. Poor Johnnie Foreigner always seemed to be very jealous of how well the British ran everything, but as long as they understood that they were inferior and that Englishness was far superior to their silly little religions and bizarre little practices then Arya was perfectly polite - even if they were funny looking and had strange voices. At least Mr. H’ghar wasn’t black!

 

“A man is waiting?”

 

“Two, actually. Professor Tyrell said that you may be coming round.”

 

Mr. H’ghar nodded, and he was rather dashing in a Polish sort of way. Since the Polish were a sturdy and friendly sort of race, with a history stretching back many millennia, and always seemed excellent at menial tasks, then she allowed herself to relax a little. His eyes slid up her bare legs, noting the shorts. No wonder, with her cropped hair and her choice of leg dressings, he thought her a boy!

 

Then she remembered he could feasibly be an eastern european Communist pretending to be Polish, and knew she must keep an eye on the man in case he tried to infiltrate Professor Tyrell and Oberyn from within in some insidious Red way. Arya was a clever girl, very aware of politics. She understood the threat of Bolshevism, and was rather with the Nazis in regards to how Europe must be saved from the threat of the shattering of class division, revolution, and men with enormous moustaches. The Nazis sounded jolly sensible, especially if one read the  _ Daily Mail _ . There were often photographs of that funny little Hitler, whose moustache was rather less silly than that Stalin’s one - much neater and friendlier and groomed - talking with his generals. They looked very organised and wore terribly smart uniforms.

 

“What is it that needs fixing? I could help?”

 

“A man needs his plumbing attended to.” He arched a red eyebrow, winked, then let himself into the cottage. That seemed terribly presumptuous but perhaps the professor and Oberyn had already started getting their hands dirty? They must be capable sorts if they could make toast, after all, without the help of the help.

 

* * *

 

Arya rang the little bell placed upon the counter of the bicycle repair shop. The front tyre of the old Military Sunbeam that Professor Tyrell had brought home from the War decided to pop a hole. The shop was well stocked, with new bicycles far more impressive than the battered one she rode - even if the rifle slings still existed which was terribly impressive - lots of tyres, several impressive air pumps, and all of the kits one would require when mending the ‘self-propelled velocipede’ as Professor Tyrell called his cycle. The professor had suffered a war wound during his time in France, towards the very end of the War, whilst riding this very bicycle. Arya thought it both jolly romantic and rather stupid, just like a boy, really. She would never have fallen off her cycle into a small crater after going to find some tea, especially when the crater contained a tiny unexploded device, and would definitely never have been slightly blown up. 

 

“Yeah?” A boy looked around a door frame, a cigarette dangling rather commonly from his mouth, then grinned. “You alright?” He had very blue eyes and was built rather like the bull that accidentally trampled Joffrey Baratheon last time he came to Winterfell, though obviously did not possess the immense testicles of a prize-winning show beast and stud. Not that Arya thought about testicles since they belonged to silly boys and slightly more intriguing men, and to be very honest she thought more of Miss Tarth than kissing boys. Miss Tarth was everything Arya aspired to be in a person. Miss Tarth was just super!

 

Apart from being chummy with Mr. Lannister, of course. Who was even more silly than the professor since he returned from Belgium  _ sans _ hand, and what sort of person was foolish enough to leave a hand somewhere in some horrid foreign field?

 

The third formers did not quite know what to think about Mr. Lannister, but the upper sixth thought about him on a nightly basis, apparently.

 

“I say, do you have any repair kits for a Dunlop 28”, the rubber has worn straight through to the canvas, you see?”

 

He took a pull on the cigarette, and Arya thought him jolly rude for not putting it out. Just like some common lower-class oik, really, even if he was quite handsome in a frightfully grubby, muscular, blue-eyed way.

 

“We don’t tend to sell many of them any more, love, we’re stocking single tubes and getting cyclists switched over to them.”

 

“I am not your love! How rude you are, young man! I will tell your father!”

 

The young man laughed. “I’ll have a look at it for you, love, and I didn’t know me father so you’ll just have to tell me what a cad and bounder I am.” And he mocked her accent, how very dare he!

 

“And I can fix my own bicycle, thank you very much! I am far better than any boy at mending things.” Ugh, an illegitimate oik! When you could not think the working classes could sink any lower, they breached the most underwhelming of expectations. Really, one never saw good men like Papa, or his friend Bobby Baratheon, going about and having babies with desperate women who craved the succour of a wealthy and secure lover, did one?

 

He leaned forward, and oh, he was grinning in that horrid insolent sort of way young men had, just like stupid Theon. Sam, however, who was nice if very wet, never smiled like that. He always followed Jon about like a lost puppy, and was terribly polite to everyone, even the servants. Mummy said he was a good influence. Papa said he was an invert, though Arya did not quite know what that meant. Something about geometry, she supposed, but Sam did not look like an acute angle to her.

 

“Bet you are, love. But without tools, you are shot, aren’t you?”

 

Arya crossed her arms and, under sufferance, allowed the young man to go outside and examine her bicycle.

 

“Bloody hell, this is still going?” He crouched, and had a rather lovely bottom, but Arya refused to be swayed by any attractive parts of the working classes. Attractive parts of the working classes were a cynical ploy with which to overthrow the Establishment. “Haven’t seen the prof. out on this for years, ever since his knee got too bad. Oberyn doesn’t do bikes, says something about saddle pressure being inconducive to-” He stopped himself, then snickered. He had very white teeth.

 

“Can you patch it?”

 

The young man rubbed his greasy hands on strong, toned thighs that allowed the thin fabric of his overalls to cling in an over-familiar manner. Arya politely averted her eyes because staring was not the done thing, obviously, and she did not wish the boy to mock her further.

 

“I can put two new tyres on for you, love, and send the prof. the bill for it? Save you damaging your nails or whatever.”

 

“I have a right mind to complain about your attitude, young man. What is your name?”

 

“Gendry, love. Just call me Gendry. Nice shorts, by the way.”

 

Horrid boy!

 

* * *

 


End file.
